


sleep pretty darling do not cry

by unsettled



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:42:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Coward gets like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sleep pretty darling do not cry

**Author's Note:**

> Not me folks, just the insomnia talking here.
> 
>  _Once there was a way to get back homeward  
>  Once there was a way to get back home  
> Sleep pretty darling do not cry  
> And I will sing a lullaby _
> 
> _Golden slumbers fill your eyes  
>  Smiles awake you when you rise  
> Sleep pretty darling do not cry  
> And I will sing a lullaby_

Coward gets like this sometimes.

Fevered.

He paces the floor, devours it, marks the carpet with heel prints and worries at his lip, worries at the delicate, bleeding skin around his nails, worries at the window frame when he pauses for a second. Only to carry on.

Frantic.

Henry doesn't like it. It leaves him unsettled, unbalanced, when Coward is like this. He hesitates, half afraid the floor will slide out from under him if he takes a step towards the ceaseless motion that is Coward.

Frenzied.

He hasn't quite learned how to consistently catch Coward. How to insert his fingers into that space of a breath, between the moment when Coward near glows with passion, fire behind his eyes and licks of flame his tongue, his words; and the moment when his smile twists without moving, turns too bright and knife sharp, consumed, aflame. A figure of ashes, all that remains after the flash fire is ignited, just waiting for the first wind to scatter him, undo him, destroy him.

Blackwood manages some times. Curls his hand under Coward's chin and kisses him until the edges of his smile ease, knows the taste of blood, but nothing more bitter. Drops a word into that stillness that is like the cresting of a wave, and Coward is distracted for a moment; the whiskey tumbler may fall from his fingers to roll, unbroken, on the carpet, pale droplets dotting the weave, only to be knocked aside when Coward moves to attach himself to Henry, refocus his existence on that fixed point, but that is all. The wave halts, slides back, baffled and shamed into stillness.

But not always.

Coward keeps coming back to the window, but Henry doesn't think he's actually seeing what's outside. His fingers pluck at the sash, the glass, the catch, leaving seeping spatters of blood from his cuticles. "Coward," he says. "Daniel," and he might as well be the wind.

He catches Coward, pins him back against his chest, and Coward - doesn't fight, he's too well behaved for that, but his body remains taut, a string, vibrating to some unheard tone, his hands fluttering meaninglessly. "Daniel," Henry says again, low. He's not pleading, though another might mistake his tone. "Daniel."

Coward stills; does not relax, but stills, bows his head forward until he's staring at his own hands, linked before him, streaked with blood. The fine hairs on the back of his neck are standing up; Henry can feel them when he presses his lips to the skin, presses his forehead. Coward shivers.

A snatch of something, half forgotten, drifts through his mind, a series of tones that remind him of the way his hands have played Coward in the past; under his breath, something not even heard, but felt through where their skin touches, he hums a brief phrase, a wordless lullaby he must have heard long ago. Never mind that there was never anyone to sing such nonsense to him; it remains.

Coward draws in a breath like he hasn't drawn one since stepping into this room. Sags back against Henry, limp, drained, bewildered. He brings his hands up as though to cover his lowered face; Henry catches them, fingers firm around Coward's wrists, and brings them instead to his lips. Presses a kiss, soft, tucks it into the hollow of Coward's palm, the hollow of his wrist, turns him and leaves another hidden in the hollow of his neck. Coward makes a small sound, not as needy as a whine, or whimper, but pleading all the same. Twists his hands in Henry's grip until they are palm up once more, supplication, beseeching.

As though _Henry_ were the one giving out favors.


End file.
